Love, Fred
by tipowath
Summary: Fred writes a series of letters to his family to be opened in the event he doesn't survive the war.
1. Mum

**Summary: Fred writes a series of letters to his family to be opened in the event he doesn't survive the war.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.  
**

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**Love, Fred  
**

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**Chapter One: Mum  
**

Dear Mum,

I'm sitting in the garden, right next to the apple tree Ginny accidentally set on fire that time she got a hold of your wand as a toddler. It's a lovely day, much nicer than the one's we've had lately. Sometimes it's easy to forget there's a war going on when the weather is this pleasant. When I think of the first war, I think of it as raining nonstop for years. But I suppose there were days when the sun came out that time around as well.

Right now you're going mental, shouting at everyone as you get things ready for Bill's wedding. When I get married I'm going to do it in private and only let you know after the fact. You'll probably forgive me in about twenty or thirty years, which isn't all that bad, considering the chaos I'd avoid in the long run. No offense, of course.

I've been thinking a lot lately. I imagine what it must have been like during the first war. George and I were too young to remember it, and now that everything's started again I wonder what it was like for you and Dad. It's so cut and dry now; whenever I read about it it's with the knowledge that everything turned out all right, at least for a while. At the time you had no way of knowing that, but in my few memories of those days I never remember you being anything but calm and collected.

In the years since then we've talked about the war a few times, but I've never asked you about your brothers. I'm starting to wonder what they were like and if I'll end up like them. I wonder what it's like to die- does it hurt? Or is it fast, like blinking? There one moment, gone the next.

I'm sorry; I'm probably upsetting you. I've always been good at doing that. You like to shout that George and I must enjoy driving you mad, but we don't, believe it or not. We've never been especially good at curse breaking like Bill, or good with animals like Charlie, or brilliant like Percy. Even Ron managed to get more OWLs than we did, and Ginny's smart and great at Quidditch. Give it a few years and she'll probably be better than George and I ever were. I don't want you to think we've been pranksters just to drive you up the wall. It's what we're good at, and I don't feel like an idiot when I'm coming up with new ideas the way I did back at school.

But enough of that. If you're reading this, I'm dead, which means there's probably a lot more on your mind than George and my pranks. I want to tell you not to grieve, but I'm not stupid; I know you're going to grieve all the same. Wouldn't it be great if death were something we could just cry over for a day and then move on? I certainly wouldn't mind that.

Did you know I didn't know you had brothers until I was seven? You never talked about it, but once a year you'd get very quiet, which, no offense Mum, is something pretty noticeable coming from you. George and I used to talk about it and try and figure out what was wrong- you'd always just smile and say nothing was out of the ordinary if we asked. I think our longest running theory was that you were a secret agent and had to keep all your movements for a month a year secret. I'm not sure where we got that one from.

Dad finally told us one day, and made us promise not to tell you. He showed us that picture of you and Gideon and Fabian standing together outside your parents' house as teenagers. That was the first time I thought of you as someone other than my mum. A few years after that, right around the time of year your brothers had died, I was going through your room to try and find some Filibuster fireworks you'd confiscated when George and I had tried to set them off under Ron's chair. Sorry. You can forgive me for that now that I'm dead, right?

I didn't find the fireworks, but I did find a notebook filled with letters. There were two a year, addressed to Gideon and Fabian. I didn't read more than a few sentences before realizing what they were, and I quickly put the notebook back. I'm sorry about that too. If it makes you feel better, I would never violate your privacy like that now. But that's stuck with me all these years, just as the picture did. Your brothers were ripped away from you and you never had a chance to say goodbye.

If I'm dead, I don't know if you had that chance this time either. Probably not- death isn't easily predicted, no matter what Professor Trelawney says. But even if that's the case, I want there to be something, anything, left for you from me. Do you remember how upset you were after the Quidditch World Cup when you thought your last words to me and George might have been about our OWLs? I didn't understand it at the time, but I do now, and I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that even if the last words we said to one another were harsh ones that it doesn't mean anything. I want you to know that there have been times when I saw you as someone other than my mother, and that I know you're your own person as well as my mum.

I'd like to get to know that woman as I get older. If I do, I'll destroy this letter and no one will be any the wiser. But if I die, I want you to know that, as surprising as it seems, I don't live just to drive you mad. Believe it or not, I've been holding back all this time.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to to jinx the kitchen door shut- you'll probably be able to reverse it in enough time to finish dinner, but everyone's been in a rotten mood lately and we could all do with a laugh.

Hey, I'm not dead yet, am I?

Love,

Fred


	2. Dad

**Summary: Fred writes a series of letters to his family to be opened in the event he doesn't survive the war.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.  
**

* * *

**Love, Fred  
**

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**Chapter Two: Dad  
**

Dear Dad,

You're sitting across the living room from me right now, putting together wedding favors. You don't look particularly happy about it, but you and I both know it's better than facing Mum's wrath. Ron's being smart for once- he's upstairs hiding. I suppose it doesn't matter in the long run; she'll just drag him down eventually.

You think I'm writing the guest list for Mum for the eight thousandth time, but I actually did it hours ago. Even George thinks I'm writing it, and I never keep secrets from him. It's always so strange when there's something one of us knows but the other doesn't- it's like keeping a secret from yourself. Do you remember the time George and I didn't speak for a few days when we were kids? This was well before Hogwarts, and to be honest I don't even remember what the argument was about in the first place. Do you know what stands out to me the most about the whole thing? How thrown off the rest of you were by it. Everyone was flustered, especially Ron. He was young, still carrying around that raggedy stuffed bear, and he kept asking over and over if George and I were getting a divorce. I think he'd heard Charlie or Bill use the term and wasn't quite sure what it meant yet.

You took me fishing the next day, which was kind of funny seeing as we both hate to fish. Neither of us acknowledged it, but it was the first time we'd really spent time together, just the two of us. I kept pausing to let George finish my sentences, and then I'd remember that he wasn't there. If one of us doesn't make it through the war, will the rest of our lives be like that?

Well, that took a suddenly morbid turn. Sorry about that. I suppose I should explain myself- I'm writing letters for everyone in the event I don't survive the war, and with that kind of subject matter it's difficult not to wade into morbid territory.

If something does happen to me, I want you to be prepared for George and how thrown off he'll be by it. That fishing trip was bizarre; it was almost like half my body was gone. George told me later that he felt the same way when you took him out the next day. But at least when we were on that boat each of us knew the other was back home, and it was only a matter of waiting a bit. If I'm dead, it's not going to be that easy.

Would you do me a favor? If I'm dead, would you take George fishing and tell him I said that even though the wait will be longer this time that I'll see him again? I'm not fully sure of what the afterlife is like, but I'm pretty sure we're reunited with our loved ones there. At least, I hope we will- I need to believe that we will be. Don't tell George I said that last part.

You've just spilled the wedding favors everywhere, and now you're scrambling to gather them up before Mum comes down and blows a gasket. I used to wonder how you'd never had a heart attack, but then I see how you are with Mum when the two of you think no one is watching. I see the way you both relax and seem as though you're an extension of the same person. Sort of like the way George and I are.

I wish I could tell you these things to your face. I'm really not this maudlin most of the time- you know that. It's easy for George and I to joke around and pretend nothing bothers us, but the problem with that is after a while everyone actually believes that nothing bothers us. But what's the alternative? I worry about the war and dying and losing the people I love, but I can't do a damn thing about it. Why not joke and laugh when the alternative is moping about miserably?

You know what I mean about putting on a brave face. You're a father of seven, it pretty much comes with the territory, doesn't it? Even when you were in St. Mungo's after your run-in with that snake you kept pretending everything was fine and it was all just a big adventure. I really respect you for that- it helped calm us all down during a time when we should have been comforting you.

This is all very muddled, isn't it? One minute I'm talking about arguments and fishing boats, the next I'm talking about dying and St. Mungo's. It's hard to organize something like this neatly, though. When you were injured I remember thinking that if you'd died there would have been so much of you that was still lying around. Your Muggle gadgets would be strewn about the shed; your slippers and robe would be tossed over the side of the bed; random To Do lists and notes with your handwriting would keep cropping up for months afterward. Death isn't something that's done neatly, not to the person dying or to the people left behind. So I suppose it makes sense that this letter is the way it is.

If I die, I want you to remember me the way I was in day-to-day life. I want you to remember me as a prankster and a joker and a mediocre student but a brilliant entrepreneur. But at the same time I want you to know that underneath it all I understood more than I let on. Once, when I was about nine, you said to me that we had the same sense of humor. Beneath all that I think we're the same in other ways- we don't often let on how worried we are, and how we don't know what's going to happen next.

But we keep on going, don't we? Somehow we keep on going- I won't lie and say that everything's going to be fine if I'm dead, but everything keeps going on for the people left behind whether they want it to or not. Don't hold it all in. Otherwise you'll end up writing bizarre letters like these, and one mad letter writer in the family is more than enough, isn't it?

Love,

Fred


End file.
